Janette tugged the handle. "This gate's locked. I can't get
out." The radio made no reply, and she let it fall to the ground, taking hold of
the fence, pulling herself up. Her boots scraped uselessly against the metal,
too large to find a foothold, and she gave a high cry of frustration as she
dropped like a supplicant to her knees, fingers meshed with the unyielding wire.
She caught her breath and looked back at the factory, watching the roiling
smoke, black against the fire, blacker than the black sky. A chemical scent
laced the air now, stinging her eyes, burning her throat. She fumbled for the
radio. "Marty, this smoke is poisonous. I can't . . . Tell . . . Oh, God, I
don't know . . . Tell . . ."
In a room across town Martin Jessup laid the silent radio on his
desk and looked at it. Out the window he could see a garish glow, a lewd
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...